There was no reply and no sensation. The gardener was yearning towards the door.
“Of course....” said Mr. Abel. “The position is not one of any responsibility, and therefore could hardly be expected to be a paying one. Your passage out....”
“I wouldn’t touch money. I hate the feel of it,” said the gardener abruptly. That threw Mr. Abel into a paroxysm of humour.
On the door-step the gardener did a heroic thing. He turned back and found Mr. Abel in the hall, completely recovered from his paroxysm.
“What about——” began the gardener, with the suffragette in his mind. “Dangerous to lose sight of her,” he thought.
“What about what?” asked Mr. Abel, and was again very much amused by the symmetry of the phrase. He was a bright-mannered man.
The gardener’s new pose lay suddenly clear before him.
“What about my wife?” he asked.
He was rather pleased with the sensation he made.
“Your wife?” exclaimed Mr. Rust and Mr. Abel in duet (falsetto and tenor).